


Mr. Parker Takes A Holiday

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Mexican spa resorts – the most relaxing places in the world.  Apparently.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Standard disclaimers and confessions; I only own the mistakes.  
>  Set in the aftermath of 4.17 “Bound”. Consider anything remotely Trip/T’Pol (and most of Seasons 3 & 4, to some extent) spoiled.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is holidaying incognito. No prizes for guessing...

He tried to sidle out of the spacious restaurant unseen but with five staff on duty for every customer he admitted it had always been a long shot. "Senor Parker, was everything satisfactory?"

"Thank you, Adriana, it was excellent." His crisp accent carried through the lamplit structure and beyond, through open French doors at either end that rose all the way up to a gently sloped roof thatched with plaited vegetation. The couple dining in the farthest corner turned, looked and returned to their meals. Their svelte hostess, her name engraved on a discreet silver badge, flashed him a maternal smile.

"And you won't stay for coffee - or another glass of wine, or water?"

"No, thank you." His stomach felt pleasantly swollen: not surprising, Mr Parker mused, having eaten more in one sitting than in the whole of the previous month. "But - if you don't mind - I'll take a glass with me to the hot tub."

Without a word she turned, filling a crystal flute with his chosen dry white while scanning an unobtrusively dimmed screen behind the semicircular bar. "The tub at the western end of the bay is available," she confirmed, and though it was hardly necessary - the thing was closest to his accommodation and unlikely to be appropriated by anybody else - he appreciated both her thoroughness and the discretion that typified the whole establishment. "Would you like me to arrange any activities for tomorrow now, or..."

"I'll book a massage for mid-afternoon if I may." He was paying a bloody fortune for their services, but innate courtesy compelled the qualification. Adriana tapped a few commands with the tip of an impeccably glossed nail.

"Fourteen-thirty?"

"That would be splendid, thank you." A snooze in the sun after breakfast; then perhaps a session in the gym, if he could bestir himself. Lunch, then a long, slow massage that reduced muscles he'd never even known existed to a state of jellified bliss. Yes, that sounded like a plan.

"Goodnight, Senor. Sleep well."

"Thank you; I'm sure I will."

Of course, if he slept beyond three hours at a stretch it'd do him as much good as any of their expensive relaxation therapies, but he hadn't come here to find fault. He had come to this secret corner of Mexico's once-hectic holiday coast to vegetate in peace, and if that meant accepting a bit of mothering from a beautiful _senorita_ a good ten years his junior, he could live with it.

The elegant dining room stood close to the resort's main reception at the landward side of the gated complex. Halfway down a narrow track winding through an artfully manicured patch of _jungle_ which concealed a first-class gymnasium, swimming pool and massage parlour Mr Parker stopped dead, allowing himself to expand his lungs and simply _breathe_ for the first time in forever.

No crises. No dramas. No aches and pains - they'd been pummelled away by a syrup-voiced local girl with the body of a ballerina and the strength of an East European shot-putter. A _male_ shot-putter, he amended wryly. 

He was surprised by how good _relaxation_ actually felt. 

The ghost of a smile touched one corner of his mouth. "Worth every penny," he murmured, giving himself an internal shake before he ambled on his way.

Beyond a single row of widely-spaced cottages, each shielded by their own verdant gardens, the path led him toward a wide terrace hewn out of the rocks above the spa's private bay. Along its length a dozen giant hot tubs burbled enticingly, all day every day, for the guests' delectation. Starlight glistened, turning the lacy whitecaps cresting each wave that rolled onto pure white sand into silvery collars, their repetitive murmur merged with the rustling of a soft breeze and the movements of nocturnal mammals in the forest canopy. Skirting his own charitably named villa, barely visible among the foliage, Mr Parker paused to consider the monochrome tranquillity of the scene before angling off the thoroughfare and under a trellised arch toward the inviting gurgle of hot water. 

It took a moment for his sharp ear to identify the other sound floating across the beachfront from the east - harsh and irregular, the guttural cries of a man approaching sexual release. His penis had twitched in recognition long before his brain could compute a more appropriate response.

An amused shake of the head brought a small howler monkey perched among the overhanging branches into the edge of his vision. Man and beast regarded each other solemnly for a long moment, each unconcerned by the intrusion of the other. "Lucky bastard, eh?" Mr Parker observed. The ape squawked what might have been agreement before darting away.

With a low chuckle he began to conscientiously strip at the sunken pool's edge, brushing out the creases from his shirt before placing it on the marble surround. Socks were neatly tucked into his shoes before trousers and underpants were added to the pile and smoothed.

An experimental dip of a wiggling toe in the bath sufficed to confirm the water was set to his temperature preference, and with a moan of relief he slipped down to his chin in the lightly foaming water, his head coming naturally to rest on one of the sponge cushions set around the rim. Blindly he felt for the inbuilt control unit, fumbling until the scent of pinewoods deemed appropriate before breakfast was overwhelmed by something deeper, muskier: something, he thought lazily, that blended nicely with the muffled sounds of a neighbour's good fortune; something that was a match for the sticky, sensual mood slowly wrapping around him.

The water lapping against his sensitised skin solidified into a lover's skilled hands and unbidden a half-forgotten fantasy stole over him, possessing his dulled mind without resistance. Full, soft lips were working over his open mouth, a supple tongue sliding to tickle his, licking the moan that worked up from the base of his throat. Mr Parker let his head loll against its pillow, arching his back to meet the first brush of a hand across his swelling cock. His skin prickled; his mouth fell open, warm huffs of breath mingling with the rising whorls of scented steam.

He could feel his love's moist breath against his neck, the capable hands working together on his receptive body: one under the water, playing his pulsing cock like a virtuoso, the other snaking higher, over his submerged belly and up, toying with the sparse sprinkle of fine hairs slicked down to his chest until finger and thumb could clamp around a nipple, tweaking and pinching it raw. He heard the rumble of familiar husky laughter as he lifted, pushing himself wantonly into those expert caresses. 

Wavelets splashed around him, drops escaping the tub to patter like cooling rain against the pavement. Fingertips feathered over his face, tickling a teasing path down neck and throat to snag once more on a sensitive nub that connected directly with his crotch. The blood sang hot through his veins, flushing his naturally pale skin as he writhed, whimpers bleeding through his puckered lips. The pressure in his balls spread up through his belly, every brush of water or steam another maddening caress. Behind his closed lids he could see the smile on that beautiful, sun-kissed face; his beloved delighted in tormenting him, and he could deny that sweet soul nothing.

He grunted, thrusting himself up into that overwhelming touch, every muscle tightened as he reached the edge and hung there, suspended with his love for a clear, perfect moment before the cataclysm claimed him and a single syllable was torn from the depths of his shattering soul.

"Trip!"


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new arrival at the resort. Of course, there's no reason for him to impact on Mr Parker's holiday...

He rolled his shoulders against the inexorable creep of tension before dipping his head beneath the hanging lengths of unnecessary foliage which was draped from the roof beams above the low reception area door, counting to twenty inside his head to quell irritation's irrational surge. The young French couple who had insisted on planting themselves at the next table and jabbering excitedly all through the meal had, after all, only wanted to be sociable: and even the most affectionate honeymoon pair must long for different company once in a while. 

It was only their eager insistence that _poor Monsieur Parker_ , all alone in a strange place, should join their afternoon round of mini-golf that had sent him scurrying the long way to his cottage, lying through his teeth about a prior engagement souvenir-shopping in the nearest town. As if the whole reason for holidaying in a small, exclusive spa resort in the middle of nowhere wasn't to avoid being bloody sociable!

Distracted by his internal rant, he had only reached five when the loud, exaggeratedly patient voice of a single new arrival leaning against the circular mahogany desk drilled into his brain. "Yeah, Chuck Johnson. That's J-O-H-N-S..."

He froze, every internal organ plummeting with a sickly thud into his immaculate brogues. Inching his way into the cover of a garishly multicoloured mock Aztec column supporting the roof, he risked a peek beneath thick dark lashes. 

It couldn't be. 

Lots of tall, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered Southern blonds had cocky attitudes and exaggerated drawls he reminded himself, dragging his gaze up the length of denim-cased legs and past a pair of firm, rounded buttocks to...

_Oh, shit._

Accent and attitude might be common enough but _that_ fashion sense could belong to only one man. Tucked into the faded blue jeans was a truly hideous shirt of mottled purples and lurid pinks, the short sleeves revealing powerfully muscled, lightly tanned forearms that crossed in a clear attitude of impatience as the newcomer hollered out the last few letters of his name.

Shrunk into the shadow of his overblown pillar Mr Parker made a swift strategic assessment. Outside, the fluting voice of Madame Lefevre could still be heard, ruling out a tactical retreat. Inching around the interior wall of a public area was probably the most certain way to attract unwanted attention. 

Decision made, he squared his shoulders, stuck out his chin and struck out across the heart of the airy room, barely restraining the urge to whistle. The smartly-dressed man behind the counter barely spared him a glance.

He reached the glass doors that led to the tennis court in safety; was congratulating himself on his inspired tactical judgement when the panels wrenched apart with the piercing shriek of an irate schoolgirl. Immediately, the new arrival swung to stare.

Their eyes locked. One man went white: the other crimson.

"Oh - umm, hi."

"Erm, yes, I - hello."

Two contrasting voices faded into embarrassed mumbles. Behind the desk, the duty manager risked a tentative cough, giving his perfectly-knotted tie an unnecessary tug.

"Mister Johnson, do you know..." he began, letting the question tail off at the realisation he was being ignored. The blond exhaled a shaky breath.

"I - uh, yeah, I guess. That is, your face is familiar, Mister...."

"Parker. Andrew Parker." Time slowed down; not, he acknowledged, an unusual sensation at times of crisis. The clarity which followed shock came as a blessed relief. "I wonder - do you know a club called the 602, Mister Johnson?"

"Yeah - yes, I - I've been there a couple 'f times."

He smiled as he thrust out a hand, making his move with all the bravura confidence he could muster. "Then I daresay that's where we've met."

"Yeah, that'll be it." The blond grabbed his proffered limb as if it were a life-raft, his initial enthusiastic hand-pump tapering off into a sheepish waggle. The receptionist coughed.

The brunet was relieved not to be the only guest who jumped like an intercepted thief. "Sorry, you were saying...?" his acquaintance asked helplessly.

"Your key code, Senor. You have Villa Two on the western side of the bay - Mister Parker is your nearest neighbour."

"Guess it's nice t' know your neighbours." The drawl was thickening appreciably, which under other circumstances he would have found amusing. Mr Johnson fumbled the strap of his grubby rucksack in hefting it onto his shoulder, his faint blush even touching the upturn at the tip of his nose. "That is, ah hope y' don't mind..."

"Not at all." For the first time he became aware of another figure, small and sleek, paid to be invisible, hovering in a corner. "I'm going that way myself now - why don't I spare this young man a journey and show you to the door?"

"That's real sociable of y'." The wide, natural beam that broke over his new neighbour's sun-kissed features flipped his innards, but years of stern training kept his answering smile in check. Side by side the two men strolled into bright sunlight, the blond towering over his companion, the brunet's quicker strides setting their pace. Until they were swallowed up by the surrounding woods, neither spoke.

Then the Southerner stopped, pressed his hands hard to his stomach and doubled over to let a great guffaw of mingled mirth and shame erupt from his depths. "Jesus, Malcolm! The guy prob'ly thinks I picked you up in a goddamn gay bar!"

"Or vice versa," the Englishman grunted, leaning into the support of a convenient tree while sweeping the first tears of mild hysteria from the corners of his grey eyes. "Bloody hell, I nearly fainted when I saw that ghastly shirt, _Mister Johnson_."

"I've told you before, _Mister Parker_ , you gotta get yourself noticed." A helping hand was offered to pull him upright and if his tardiness in letting go was noted, no comment was passed. "And why Parker, anyway?"

"Mum's maiden name. And what are you grinning like a bloody loon for?"

"Great minds and all that stuff. Mom's a Johnson."

"Ah." Malcolm felt his treacherous mouth turn up uninstructed into an answering grin. "And _Chuck_?"

Bright blue eyes rolled in mock impatience. "It's a nickname for Charles where I come from. Grandpa Johnson used to call us Tuckers _Charles, Charlie and Chuck_ , 'til Momma threatened to wipe the yard with his ass and he decided Trip worked better."

"I did rather wonder." That was, Malcolm considered, a monumental piece of British understatement. Trip Tucker shrugged.

"You could always've asked, buddy! Where'd you get - no, wait a minute!"

Delighted with himself, he clouted his friend so hard on the back that Malcolm staggered, all his years of training called into play to right him in a millisecond. "I've seen your signature - M. A. Reed. Malcolm _Andrew_ Reed, right?"

"Go to the top of the class and give out the pens." The sarcasm earned another chortle, under cover of which he could start moving and shake off the humiliating recognition of exactly how pathetic he'd become thanks to this utterly oblivious man. "This place may be officially designated _Middle of Nowhere_ on the map, but I didn't fancy rolling up and announcing myself by rank and service number."

"Likewise." He was, Reed decided, being observed in precisely the same indiscreet way Doctor Phlox might study a disagreeable new virus. It wasn't a novel sensation, but coming from this man... no. He wouldn't have it. 

"Spit it out, Mistah Tuckah," he rapped, taking care to check the area for idlers. Trip shrugged, both hands raised in playful surrender.

"I was just wondering how you heard of this place, is all," he whined, dropping into step behind the smaller man where the path narrowed through claustrophobic curtains of greenery before opening onto the gravelled avenue along one side of which the guest accommodation was spaced. Malcolm flashed a quick half-smile back at him. 

"It was recommended by a classmate in my second year at the Academy, actually," he explained. "I spent a week here during the Easter break - most relaxing place I'd ever been. I've been promising myself for years I'd come back, but somehow..."

"Never gotten 'round to it?" The single-storey whitewashed structures with their overhanging roofs were set well back from the path, the small gardens around each protected by banks of foliage thicker than the average castle wall: their rear lawns, stretching down a gentle slope toward the terrace, appeared completely concealed from passers-by. Tucker cocked his head. "Nice."

"All mod cons," Malcolm announced primly, spoiling the act with a hearty push to set his companion into ungainly motion. "That's yours - I'm in Villa One, so don't go playing your classic rock collection too loud."

"Yessir." Where he would have turned away, Malcolm was stopped by a large hand on his forearm. "Why dontcha come in and have a drink or something, _Andrew_? Always assuming you've got nothing better to do..."

Surprise made him giddy. "Thank you, _Chuck_ ," he drawled, lingering over the strange name long enough to make the other man snicker. "I've got nothing planned until mid-afternoon that I know of, but if you're looking for alcohol - forget it. They only put soft drinks, coffee sachets and teabags in the guest rooms."

"What, no milk?"

Reed rolled his eyes."And milk," he confirmed wearily. "You treating me to a lemonade on your bill, then?"

"I'm a generous kinda guy." The hand still on his arm tightened in a definite squeeze, gently tugging him along in the bigger man's wake. "Many other people stayin' this week?"

"Two couples, both down at the eastern end of the bay. I was trying to escape one of them when I fell over you." 

"I'll have to thank 'em." With so few people spread over such a large area, Tucker realised, he might have spent a week here without realising who was living right next-door. "Grab a seat, Mal. So - is this place as good as you remember?"

"It's lovely." In that accent the words had, Trip knew, at least four different meanings, but this time he could detect nothing but sincerity. "If you want the guided tour sometime, let me know."

"Done." Ice-cold lemonade sloshed into one tall glass, presented with a magician's flourish to his guest, before Tucker filled another with foaming milk and folded himself into the armchair opposite Reed's. "I've got the brochure with the map, but you can tell me what to avoid as well as what's worth doin'."

"Mini golf," Malcolm informed him definitively. A golden brow waggled. "The honeymoon couple are golfers."

Trip nodded solemnly. "Gotcha. This place got a sauna?"

"Little hut off your bedroom, assuming our accommodation's the same. There's a public one behind the massage parlour - the masseuses look after it - but..."

"Pretty pointless when we got our own." Still, he'd pricked up visibly at the mention of masseuses, and of its own accord Reed's mouth started working.

"I'm booked for a massage at fourteen-thirty. There are always tables free, if you want to join me?"

"You really wouldn't mind me musclin' in on your vacation?" Furrows cut deep into the smoothness of Tucker's broad brow and Malcolm had to wrap both hands around his glass to stop himself reaching to smooth them away. "You came here to escape, after all..."

"Trip." What fluttering of nerves he had still felt in his belly faded in the face of such oblivious anxiety. "If I minded, I wouldn't have offered, would I? Get yourself unpacked, change into the dressing gown that's hanging on the bathroom door, and I'll meet you outside in an hour. Agreed?"

If Commander Tucker, Starfleet's finest and most aggravating chief engineer, accepted the suggestions of his colleagues with such alacrity, Malcolm thought ruefully, half the disputes of the last four years might have been avoided altogether. 

"Just don't be offended if I nod off on you," he cautioned. "These girls may not have 24 fingers but believe me, they could teach your average Nuvian a thing or two! I'm no good for anything for the rest of the day after an hour with them."

"That's what I came here looking for." Trip smacked his lips extravagantly. "No, you relax, finish your lemonade and tell me what else is worth doing around here. I've only got four days, so I don't wanna waste time."


	3. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messers Parker and Johnson share some quality time. This might be dangerous.

"Oh, boy." Muffled by the pillow into which he was busy mashing his face, Trip almost moaned his approbation of the talented hands sliding damply over his exposed back. "Oh, yeah. Right there."

Over the slapping sound of oiled palms working down his spine, Malcolm raised a drowsy chuckle. "Told you they're good," he purred. The groaned response merged with his dainty masseuse's expert kneading, working its warming way through his glistening flesh.

"And how." Trip, he noticed absently, sounded slurred. Sleepy. That was good. He wouldn't be offended at all when Malcolm dozed off under those lovely, soothing hands.

He shifted slightly, offering greater access to the nasty knot in the small of his back that took extra work every day, biting his bottom lip against another whimper when steely fingers slicked with vanilla cream dug into the tender spot and made him jerk at an instantaneous, delectable point of near-pain. "Mmmm," bled out into his pillow before splayed palms moved upward again in soothing circles, working their way out across already rag-limp shoulders. "Mmmm."

The faint creak of movement nearby was muted; he heard it, was vaguely conscious of its meaning, but couldn't be arsed to lift his cotton-wool head to look at his neighbour. "That good, huh?"

"Better. Aaah, yes!"

The flex of greasy digits around his shoulders shot pleasure all the way through his chest, then lower. "Another pillow, Senor Parker?" the honeyed voice of his enchanting tormentor crooned. He tried to shake his head.

"'m fine. Just - uuuh, that's good!"

Her laughter trickled over him. Burying his face in a single downy cushion Malcolm closed his eyes, let his breathing lengthen and tried, groggily, to focus on the inexplicable pleasure-points she was finding all over his liquefying body.

He could feel the warmth from her slick hands permeating his skin, going deep into his bones and through to leak out onto the marble tabletop beneath him, sweat prickling erotically on his chest and belly. As his eyelids grew heavier and his thought processes slowed the low grunts and gasps coming from his right began to sing through his sleepy head, accompanying him into the sweetest of dreams.

*

"Senor Parker?"

Her resonant call registered at the third attempt. On a satisfied sigh Reed rolled over onto his back, roused toward semi-consciousness by the chill of marble against oil-warmed flesh. A fine-boned female face swam before his prickling eyes, white teeth gleaming against dark olive skin. "Thank you, Carmen," he mumbled, the effort of sitting up almost too much for his thoroughly worked muscles. 

Only as he shifted onto his hip did he become awkwardly conscious of a weight that might usually be described as pleasant throbbing in his nether regions; and of the scant protection awarded by a narrow scrap of feather-soft terrycloth. "Erm - excuse me, I _do_ apologise..."

His embarrassment was increased by sliding off behind the bench: for there, facing him with a matching tent pole holding out his own towel, stood a blushing Trip Tucker, all golden and glistening with almond-scented oil as he tried to cover his unwelcome condition with spread hands. His slitted glance dropped momentarily below Malcolm's midriff, then shot up to the giant fan whirring over their heads. "Umm, sorry, everybody. I _really_ didn't 'spect that to happen."

Reaching his waiting robe without revealing far more of himself than respectability (a rather pointless concern in the circumstances) required, Malcolm decided, wasn't really on. Better to put a brave face on the uncomfortable truth and waddle past the mortified American, keeping both sides of his towel clamped together. "It's probably not the first time these ladies have had such a _significant_ effect on their over-stressed clientele, Chuck," he murmured, nearly dropping the confounded garment when his cock jumped in protest at the unfamiliar name. Tucker spun to snatch his from the next hook along, inadvertently giving the Englishman a lungful of the erotic mixed aroma of sweaty skin and perfumed oil. He dug his nails into both palms, willing himself to focus on the small sting of pain.

Only when his recalcitrant semi pulsed in answer did he realise that might have been another mistake.

"Please don't be embarrassed, gentlemen; if you are relaxed enough for such an experience, we have done our jobs." Carmen and her equally pretty friend were sanguine which only, Reed mused, made his predicament worse. Unctuous, sweet-scented oils, soft, talented hands and a gorgeous, near-naked man moaning in ecstasy nearby... he should have known it was a recipe for total humiliation.

If there was any comfort in the embarrassment being equally shared, he couldn't find it yet. In fact, Tucker's adorable confusion made him feel worse, which in turn reminded him what a complete and utter fool he'd made of himself over the man. 

Still, Trip was looking at him with the helplessness of a half-drowned kitten needing care, and he couldn't deny the thrill of pride that tore through him at proof of the man's absolute unspoken trust. "Well - thank you for being so thorough, ladies," he said, pleased that his cultured tones did not waver. "But perhaps we should go now, before we humiliate ourselves any further?"

"Ah'm not sure that's even possible, but you're probably right." Either Trip was deflating even more reluctantly than he was or (more likely, Reed acknowledged) he'd simply forgotten his was clutching the edges of his robe together like a footballer protecting his prize assets at a free kick. "Sonofabitch! I ain't lost control of myself like that in a public place since high school!"

"I'd rather not hear about that, if it's all the same to you." Despite the afternoon's humidity Malcolm could feel his stinging cheeks start to cool once the sliding doors separated him from the knowing smirks of the two charming Mexican girls. "Told you they were good, though."

"They were enjoyin' all that damn pummelling at the start too much for my likin', but yeah." Neither man, Tucker realised, was striding with his usual purposeful rush; Malcolm, like himself, seemed content to amble through the trees, arms hanging loose at his sides: relaxed in spite of everything. "You do that every day?"

"Most of it," Reed replied wryly, then kicked himself for betraying too much. "That is, I usually book a massage for the afternoon, then totter back to sleep it off before dinnertime. There's a decent gym..."

"Malcolm Reed, if you're workin' out on your vacation, I'm gonna snitch to Phlox!"

Humour dissipated their lingering awkwardness. Laughing, the younger man feigned terror before coming clean. "Oh, I'm on my best behaviour, Commander. Tai chi and yoga only; no martial arts. Don't want to frighten the natives."

Fully aware of his lightweight friend's fighting capacities, Tucker considered that a distinct possibility. "Okay, I'll let you off this time, Loo-tenant," he drawled. "And a sleep sounds like a pretty good idea right now. Join me? For dinner tonight, I mean."

Floored by the possible interpretation of the first two words, it took Reed a moment to gather his wits enough for a proper reply. "Certainly, if it wouldn't be an intrusion. You came here for peace and privacy too."

His friend's voluble reassurances chased him all the way back to his villa twenty metres further down the track. 

With a weary sigh Malcolm crossed the sunny lounge, pausing long enough to activate the ceiling fans throughout the building before he shucked out of his borrowed robe at the bedroom door. Cooled air kissed his penis and as if it were on strings it jerked, the image of Trip naked but for a pitiful scrap of towel, golden and glistening, overlaying his own smaller, paler reflection in the full-length mirror opposite. 

With a frustrated groan he dismissed the lightweight clothing laid out in readiness for his return, one hand automatically dipped to cradle the reviving weight between his legs. Two alternative remedies offered themselves before his mind fogged up, and one had long since lost the limited appeal it would usually possess.

The bedsprings squeaked under his limp weight. Knees bents, head thrown back, Malcolm began a rhythmic, resolute stroking with his right hand while the left wandered, dropping random butterfly caresses over chest, neck, face and balls. Muscles pounded into jelly tightened and fizzed; harsh, hungry sounds bled through his puckered lips. 

Lost in the pleasure of his own body he was deaf to the identical noises floating on the sex-sticky air from his nearest neighbour.

*

Drifting toward sleep in a sated mess after, Malcolm Reed allowed himself a sudden, syrupy chuckle. Between massage and wank sessions, this was at least turning into an incredibly relaxing holiday. 


	4. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr Johnson" has a few things to get off his chest.

"You're sure you're okay with us having dinner together? I don't wanna ruin your vacation..."

"Chuck." Using the pseudonym wasn't, Reed mused, getting any easier: nor being helped by the fact that the great blond oaf had to swallow a snigger every bloody time. "I think we've known each other long enough for you to be confident that if I didn't _want_ to spend my time with you, I'd say so! How's the steak?"

"Pretty good." On its arrival Malcolm had delicately suggested reinforcing the table to bear the massive weight. His own immense platter of colourful salad looked positively puny in comparison, but the Southerner was tucking in with such exuberant relish he'd likely be demanding dessert before his companion was anywhere near ready. "And I'm sorry. I just know how you value your privacy."

"You're protecting me from the Lefevres - and trust me, they're scarier than a battalion of drunken Klingons when they get going." Beneath his lashes, Malcolm flicked a resentful glance across the room, veering away when Madame Lefevre's all-seeing chocolate stare intercepted him. "But how did you find this place, Trip? It's not in any tourist brochure I've ever seen."

In the low light it was hard to be certain, but he suspected the engineer was blushing again. "A friend suggested it," Tucker mumbled round a mouthful of meat, swatting absently with his napkin at the juices spurting down his chin. "Someplace I could get away, get my head back together. Burying myself in work, Colombia - they didn't work, so I figured maybe this would."

"Is that why you transferred?" The question had shimmered under the surface whenever they'd been together in the weeks since Commander Tucker's re-transfer back to Enterprise had been confirmed but, bold as he was in combat situations, Lieutenant Reed had been too timid to ask it direct. Trip's shoulders rolled.

"Maybe. Things just got a little weird."

Setting down his fork, Reed fixed his friend with a penetrating look. "Somebody ought to write that into Starfleet's job description," he said, deceptively mild. Trip snorted.

"You ever felt like life's spinnin' off out of your control, Malcolm? Let me tell you- it's scary."

"Bloody terrifying, actually: and yes." _Every time I'm within spitting distance of you._ "But running away never helps."

"That's pretty much what T'Pol said." Tucker's regular features twisted as if he'd bitten through something sour - or through his own tongue, Malcolm amended, gnawing a rustic chunk of volcanic chilli without feeling the explosive burn hit the roof of his mouth. "Course, it just pissed me off more coming from her."

"I'm sure she meant well." He was pleased with the neutrality of the words, betraying none of the gall that swilled his stomach. Trip sighed, took a swig of his rich red wine and sat back, staring through his friend without, Malcolm thought gloomily, even seeing him. _Nothing new there._

"Maybe. Hell, she says she was all messed up too, and that's not funny for a Vulcan. Even she can't pretend to understand what in hell she was doing in the Expanse."

"Again - that goes for most of us." That little adventure had chewed up the entire crew and spat them out in assorted states of disrepair. Reed wondered bleakly if any of them could ever go back to being normal again but, faced with his best friend's despair he thought better of saying so. _Just another burden to quietly bear_ , he thought, the crisp white wine turned bitter on his tongue. _The old bastard would almost approve._ "And frankly, you were the only one with an excuse for going at least slightly loopy."

"I went a whole lot more than that, and Lizzie'd have been the first to kick my butt for it." Speaking her name still stung like an irate wasp in his heart, but Trip was glad of the pain: it kept her memory sharp. "Being hurt's no excuse for treatin' folks like shit, Malcolm, and that's what I did. You, Johnny, Hoshi, my team... hell, even T'Pol."

"If memory serves, she deserved it."

Ouch. Now he sounded as acid as the bile that coated his teeth. "It hurt," Tucker confessed unnecessarily. "Even if I didn't know why I'd done it, hearing her write us off as an _experiment_ isn't good for a guy's ego, you know? And then after... I couldn't get her out of my head, and that was even worse. I'd never thought of her that way before."

"There were enough sages on the lower decks willing to offer lectures on the _obvious sexual tension_ between the two of you." Deliberately Malcolm chose the hottest item on his plate, hoping its scalding effect around the mouth might counter the frozen sensation crawling out of his gullet. 

It didn't. Tucker grunted, taking a careful sip of his drink and letting its sweet richness swill around his tongue. "Ah'm glad we kept 'em entertained," he growled, amusement just leaking through the sarcasm. "Jesus, Malcolm! All those months... watching her marry Koss, seein' her come back to Enterprise like nothing had changed, treating me like a piece of shit off her shoe..."

"That's a bit harsh." Defending the cold-blooded bitch who' casually broken two men's hearts. The things this man had him doing astounded Malcolm. "She's a patronising cow when it suits her."

"Guess I took it to heart."

"Hardly surprising, being..."

The words were right there, at the back of his throat. He simply couldn't spit them out. 

"In love with her?" Trip spared him the effort and in the process stuck his steak knife right through the Englishman's chest. "That's what I thought. I figured transferring off Enterprise'd get her out of my system."

"And it didn't." 

"Gawd, I thought I was such a fuckin' sap!" The utter obliviousness of the man, Malcolm realised, made the admission all the harder to bear. "She never gave me a sign - played it so damn cool, just droppin' the bombshell about being divorced, then wavin' me off to Colombia like I meant nothing... and all the while she was right there inside my head!"

"Trip, I'm sorry." To his amazement Malcolm meant it, his own agony in hearing the truth swamped by the strength of his love for that rash, open-hearted, thoroughly _decent_ man. "I thought - when you said on the Romulan drone that it'd been a mistake I knew you didn't believe it, but... whenever you need a friend, you know I'm around, right?"

"I've always know that, Mal." A heavy hand came down over his, the warm pressure enough to melt his flesh into their pristine white cotton tablecloth. "I've just never told you how much I appreciate it."

The approach of a waiter with more wine and the dessert trolley gave both men cause to assess their position, Tucker's hand sliding off to clench with its partner in his lap. "Maybe you're right - maybe back then I thought I was in love with her, still thought there was a chance... Dammit, she had no right to hide it from me!"

Surreal conversations were another occupational hazard, Reed reflected, recalling one particular gem when a faulty comm. line and a linguist with a head cold had almost started an interplanetary fist-fight, but this one took the cream cake. "Hide that she's in love with you?" he volunteered faintly.

Tucker's guffaw brought all movement around the building to a screeching stop. "Hell, no!" he yelped, dropping the volume (and shooting up the vocal scale) in response to a sharp kick in the shin. "D' you really want dessert?"

Even a light salad lay across his gut like molten lead. Malcolm almost overturned their table on the way to vertical. "Not at all, actually. If you're ready to go..."

He barely had time to acknowledge the farewells of the staff before Trip had hustled them both out the door and into the forest's gloomy embrace. "Sorry," he muttered. "I was starting to feel like Hoshi in a crawlspace in there."

"She'll be glad to hear that." Against all his rigid training Malcolm saw his hand reach out; felt the tickle of hairs against his palm on its way down the engineer's forearm. He watched in awe as his fingers curled themselves around the wrist and squeezed, awareness of the contact spreading all the way down to his toes. 

He'd obviously drunk too much. He never behaved like this. "Er - shall we head for home, then?"

They were halfway through the landscaped jungle before Tucker spoke again, quieter now, more controlled. "She didn't tell me 'til we'd got those Orions off the ship. Of course, now I can see she'd been dropping hints ever since I came back; askin' if I'd been thinking about her, havin' dreams, but could she just come right out and _say_ it?"

"Apparently not." There didn't seem to be any other answer.

"Nope." They might, Trip thought, have been anywhere in the galaxy: in a bubble of perfect isolation, silver starlight trickling through oppressive foliage to gild their faces, bringing a gloss to Malcolm's strong profile. He slumped down on a carefully placed fallen tree, allowing himself at last to appreciate unwavering support from the most forbearing of friends. "When she - when we made love, it created a psychic link between us. She knew about it right from the start, and she wasn't planning on tellin' me. Ever. Like it didn't concern me. When I found out, well... let's just say the last year makes one helluva lot more sense."

His legs were failing. Malcolm subsided onto the other end of the log, the last few sentences whirling like flakes in a snowstorm around his battered brain. "But you're human," he managed when the other man's silence had dragged long enough to indicate a response was expected. "We're not telepathic. How..."

"T'Pol doesn't know. She never thought it could happen with a primitive - that's my word, but you know it's what she was thinking when she got around to telling me." 

Unable to challenge the assumption, Reed grunted. "All that time," Tucker marvelled, almost to himself. "All those months thinkin' I was going crazy, like I couldn't control my own mind, and it was all because of her. And she didn't even have the guts to tell me!"

He felt dizzy; as if the phantoms of the last few hellish years were rising up, surging out of the trees around him. "I don't understand."

"You're not alone, buddy." Trip, on the other hand, seemed to be sitting straighter, as if expressing himself had lifted a burden from his back. "Seems her moods - she called 'em neural impulses, but that's just fancy Vulcan crap - were feeding direct into my head. Like an echo, she said; bits of her brain bouncin' around gettin' all tied up with mine, and me not knowing a damn thing about it."

"That sounds like it could get complicated."

The trademark dry neutrality earned a snicker. "Fuckin' confusing's what it gets," Trip corrected solemnly. "Then - bam! She skips off home to Vulcan, does some kind of ritual purifyin' thing, and I get a one-line message. The purging has been successful. Not even a goddamn signature!"

"I dare say it was logical to assume you'd know who it came from." The gloomy phantoms might be receding back into the woods, but in their place came a sickening combination of emotions Reed couldn't deal with - not now, not with Trip Tucker baring his soul like a mediaeval sinner with his priest (a role, he mused, few people were worse equipped to fulfil), practically begging his good buddy Malcolm to understand. The Southerner sighed explosively.

"S'pose she'd look at it that way. Anyway, that's why I came here - to get away from all that shit, get my head back together. But it's weird. I should be happy to have my mind back, right?"

"The human brain is an astonishingly adaptable organ, Commander," Malcolm chortled in his best _over-enthusiastic Denobulan_ voice. Comradely, Trip punched his shoulder. 

"It must be if it can get used to being fucked about by a Vulcan," he agreed. "Hell, I didn't know she was there for a whole year, but now she's gone, my head feels - empty."

"If you tried thinking a little more there wouldn't be as many gaps for T'Pol to have filled."

He had never, Malcolm knew, allowed himself to speak so unguardedly with anyone else. Yet invariably Trip accepted whatever burst out of his mouth and - miraculously - understood its intent.

"Ah don't like t' do much 'f that thinkin' stuff, Lootenant," he replied, thickening his accent until it reminded the Englishman of the richest chocolate sludge. "Ah just kinda _do_ stuff."

While one man laughed, the other turned grim. "Maybe if I tried it, I'd not get myself into such a fuckin' mess!"

"Trip." He wanted to see that glorious, sunny smile again; wanted the old, reckless, heart-on-sleeve Tucker to shed the crust of cynicism and hurt that had smothered him for too long. "To err is human, apparently, but it sounds to me like T'Pol's the one who _really_ stuffed up, and even her initial intentions with the neuropressure were good."

"Shit happens?"

"It's the nugget of gold in the cowpat that makes life worthwhile. A loud-mouthed hick with a crap fashion sense once told me that."

"Figure he put it a bit differently, but yeah." Again a meaty paw connected with his shoulder, accompanied by a genuine chortle before Trip hauled himself upright and offered a hand to his friend. "You know what really hurt?"

"That having finally confessed, she cut and run?"

Under a nakedly admiring blue stare it was all he could do not to follow T'Pol's less-than-laudable example. "It's obvious, really," he continued hastily. "A bit like having the person you've fancied for ages asking you out, then bolting before the main course arrives."

Trip considered the comparison with unwonted seriousness. "I guess," he conceded, kicking at a protruding tree root before meandering on, head bowed and hands stuffed deep in pockets. "And it's gonna take a while, I think, before I really understand what's been me in the last few months, and what came from her. No wonder I've been feeling... schizophrenic."

"Your personality and hers in the same head... thank God Phlox didn't have to do a neural scan. You could've blown Sickbay to smithereens."

"Thanks, Mal." Tucker hesitated, enabling the smaller man to draw alongside before reaching out to grip his shoulder hard. "I never thought I'd meet anyone I knew here, but I'm glad I did. You're one helluva good guy."

"I do my best." He charged ahead through the undergrowth, hoping for time to cool his volcanic blush before undiluted starlight could display it. "Breakfast tomorrow?"

"Just come call for me." By the gentleness of his friend's reply he guessed the ruse had failed. "And - thanks, Malcolm. For everything."

He was gone before the Englishman could react. "Goodnight, Trip," floated wistfully along the line of compact cottages before Reed turned on his heel and fled.


	5. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening's revelations have come between Malcolm and his sleep. What to do about it?

Twenty minutes later he was scissoring the tangled sheets clear and kicking his way upright, one hand raking back through hair already ruffled from his incessant fidgeting. Fragments of agitated Southern speech jangled through his head; images of that heavenly handsome face contorted with confusion and pain scrolled before his eyes. And beneath it all, insidious as an itch in an EV suit, was that maddening little tingle of hope.

Trip wasn't in love with T'Pol. Not any more. Perhaps he never had been, if her _neural impulses_ had been exercised the control he seemed to think.

Still, that fact didn't offer him much, Reed acknowledged grimly, stalking his holiday home like a hungry jaguar on the scent of prey. Even if he wasn't pining for their First Officer, Trip Tucker was still as straight as the Admiralty flagpole. At the very best it meant he was spared the hell of watching his beloved court a superior officer.

"Bollocks!"

His exclamation rang through the dark cottage like a gunshot. Impatiently snatching his bathrobe Reed strode out into the night, letting the door slam behind him. All the good work of a week's enforced relaxation was being undone in an evening, he recognised, feeling every muscle and nerve ending start to fizz and pop with frustration's unwelcome zing. _Fat chance of getting to sleep now, Malcolm my lad._

He disgusted himself. Wallowing in self-loathing and despair because the man he loved - the best friend he had ever had - couldn't give him more. Yet clinging onto the hope that with T'Pol's malevolent hold gone Trip might somehow, someday, spare him a second glance.

De-stressing. He'd known there was a reason he'd dodged it for so long. 

Unoccupied, his thoughts wandered into forbidden territory. All those dangerous fantasies stored up over the last few years, carefully locked away in a corner of his mind, were free to creep out, leaving him prey to ever more hopeless disappointment. 

His cock pulsed hard. _Oh, fucking brilliant._

Now his traitorous body was getting in on the act, demanding the release he had denied it far too long. With a groan Reed cast off his towelling robe and clambered over the sill into his reserved tub, blindly amending its settings to fit his temperature and scent preference. 

His friends might snigger behind their hands at his _old-fashioned British prudishness_ ; assume that straight-laced, sober Malcolm Reed had had all those inconvenient _urges_ surgically removed around puberty. If only it was that simple!

For the first few weeks in the company of a certain brash, brilliant, beautiful chief engineer he'd been overwhelmed by erotic imagery; a walking, talking, very occasionally thinking, hard-on. Every spare hour had been spent servicing the raucous demands of his impatient libido. 

It had had to stop.

Extra work - small, private technical projects - had consumed his so-called leisure hours. Regular sub-zero showers had taken the place of lazy self-pleasure before the morning alarm. _Cold turkey_ hadn't been easy, but it had worked.

Until now.

Now they crowded in on him: flickering visions of that long, golden length entangled with his. That rich, sweetened drawl murmuring words of love and lust wound through the gurgle of the bubbling water. Powerless against his own baser nature Malcolm grasped himself, closed his eyes and began to pump, slow and steady, pleasure swirling up from his loins. Musky whorls of steam rose from the lapping waves that caressed him as he squirmed. He bit his lip, and another spark of sensation arrowed through him.

He couldn't stop a gasp escaping. He didn't want to try. This felt good. This was what he needed. No expensive relaxation therapies. Just a bloody good wank.

Broad, blunt fingers pinched a nipple. Malcolm hummed deep in his throat, feeling the answering tug at the base of his swollen cock. Trust Trip to know how to touch him - a little rough, giving that sharp, stinging twist that reverberated right to the marrow. _Oh yes, the other one now. Oh yes Trip please, just like that._

Somewhere in the fluffy midst of rising delight he was aware of the fine hairs starting to prickle on his nape. His neck arched off the bath's foam surround, cool air sweeping the sweaty skin. Malcolm sighed, pushing his shoulders forward so his upper body rose, warm water streaming down his chest. His eyelids fluttered.

The water around him - the very blood in his veins - froze like he'd been plunged into a blast chiller. There facing him, penis parting the downy material of his robe on its way to full arousal, stood a wide-eyed, panting Trip Tucker.

For an eternity the two painfully aroused friends simply stared at each other. Tucker's throat worked violently, to no audible effect. And despite being caught ogling, his excitement remained unmistakable.

Reed's tongue made a slow circuit of lips already swollen from tiny bites. "You can come in, if you like," he heard himself say, quite unaware he'd been intending to speak at all. "The water's lovely."

"'s not the water ah'm admiring here." Low and raspy, Trip's voice raised gooseflesh on Malcolm's existing gooseflesh. "I couldn't sleep..."

"Neither could I." He could feel a thousand little rivulets cascading down his body as he stood, unembarrassed in the face of Trip's greedy appreciation. His hand extended; his lips curved into a full, feral smile. "And the offer's still open, if you'd like..."

"More than like." When the fleecy robe slipped off the other man's broad shoulders it was Malcolm's turn to drool. Gingerly the blond stepped down into the sunken bath, and Neptune himself couldn't have subsided into his domain Reed mused, too awed to protest the abject flight of romantic fancy, with greater grace. His curtailed strides across the tub to tower over the Englishman kicked up waves high enough to sting their thighs. "But you're right - it's nice."

"I'm glad you approve." The tub temperature had gone off the scale without a touch of the controls; the heat generated, Malcolm decided wonderingly, by those smouldering blue eyes and that huge, glowing cock. He sat down, his arms stretched along the rim, head cocked to give his best attempt at a sultry smile. 

T'Pol could probably pull a more convincing _seductive_ pose, but it did the trick. Trip splashed down onto his knees, water sloshing over the rim as he shuffled closer and Malcolm's legs moved apart, silently inviting. Smoothly, slowly, Trip accepted.

"Malcolm." The name rippled over its owner's parted lips, moist as the scented steam that enveloped him as they came together, wet bodies sticking pleasantly beneath the waterline. "Are you sure..."

The brunet arched forward, swallowing down the question in a long, hot answering kiss. Trip's azure eyes were all ink-black pupil by the time he was let go. 

"Yeah," he breathed, the slackest, silliest, most wonderful smile Reed had ever seen twisting his star-gilded face. "You're sure."

"Very." One arm locked around the Southerner's neck, guiding his head forward for another kiss, harder, deeper, more insistent than the first while the engineer's longer frame settled itself comfortably between his parted thighs, the fit perfect, as if one had been made to complete the other. 

He was, Malcolm discovered, maundering again. When their damp chests connected, he realised he didn't care.

Highly aroused and utterly bemused he plastered himself against the bigger man, gripping on tight when Trip's tongue delved into his mouth again, urgent and demanding. Aquaphobia forgotten he let go of the tub, wrapping both arms around his lover while they undulated, the throb of one cock passing straight into the other. The gentle lap of wavelets caressed them like a hundred pairs of extra hands and when Trip's mouth tore off his, attaching itself to the side of his neck instead, Malcolm was free to moan his delight, every ragged sound an encouragement to the man floating against him, keeping their swollen flesh in sweet alignment. 

The universe narrowed to the magical sensations coursing out from his core, and when the climax swept out over him he heard his desperate cry of "Trip!" answered with a deep, full-throated roar.

"Malcolm!"


	6. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even men of action have to do the talking thing occasionally...

For an age they floated in blissful silence, limbs loosely wrapped around each other while their breathing steadied and heart rates came down, the heat of their shared release dissolved into the water's swirl. Then Trip raised his heavy head from Malcolm's shoulder, smiling dazedly at the younger man. "That was - unexpected," he ventured.

Reed felt his mouth twitch. "Just a bit," he agreed, releasing his grip with reluctance to allow the other man to slide away. It was only when Tucker drifted in right next to him, draping a long arm over the sill and around his shoulders that Malcolm's internal muscles followed the lead of his limbs and softened into absolute relaxation.

From the corner of his eye he could see the other man squinting at his profile, as if Trip were trying to read his feelings there. "You're okay with it?" the engineer enquired. 

"Trip." Affection drenched him like the warm monsoon rains of Malaysia. "If I wasn't, you'd be minus something rather important by now."

The Southerner's free hand splashed down, its form distorted by the water's roll as he shielded a certain delicate area. "I'm kind 'f attached to mah balls," he mock-whined.

"Oh, I wouldn't damage anything potentially useful." Amazed by his own boldness, Malcolm shifted nearer and planted a kiss on his neighbour's cheek. "But - why?"

To his surprise the engineer didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I couldn't sleep," he said, his shrug making their damp flesh prickle stickily where it touched above the waterline. "I kept thinking how _right_ it felt, bein' with you. It just proves that having T'Pol in my head I've not been _me_ , because bein' alone with you, just kicking back and havin' fun... it's like I've remembered what being _Trip Tucker_ is about."

The gurgle-glug of outdoor plumbing merged with the rustle of foliage and the distant whisper of waves on the shore, the rhythm hypnotic, lulling Malcolm's hyperactive mind until his friend could gather his wits enough to continue. 

"Remember how it used to be, Mal? You and me against the universe, always together, sharin' everything?"

"I remember." His throat felt thick; his heart squeezed in a giant fist. As if he could forget!

When he spoke again, Trip sounded equally afflicted. "I realised today how much I've missed that - missed _you_ ," he amended hastily. "I've never told anybody all that stuff about T'Pol, and it feels like talking to you's finally cleared her outta my head. What I've realised is, she could mess with my mind, but she never got near my heart. That's always been yours. Always assuming you're interested?"

"Considering our position I'd call that a reasonable assumption, Mister Tucker."

The formality caused a quiver before comprehension smoothed the Southerner's frown. "I used to call myself every kind of fool for thinkin' I'd seen a flicker of interest from you," he marvelled. "I've wanted you forever, Malcolm. I just never thought... then T'Pol made a move on me, and for some crazy reason..."

"Awfully nice bum?" He was trying to explain, Reed knew that. Trying to rationalise - maybe for both of them - what was, and would remain, irrational. _Always the engineer, always trying to fix things, even before they break_. Tucker snorted.

"Maybe I'm crazy, but lyin' in bed tonight I started to hope. You've been good to me, Malcolm, even when I've treated you like shit. Then you let me muscle in on your vacation, listen to me spillin' my guts over my fucked-up love life... I don't deserve to ask this, but that little reaction of yours in the massage parlour: was it anything to do with me?"

"Whatever gave me away?" The irony might have unnerved some, but Trip greeted it with a big _aw, shucks_ grin, slapped both palms down in the water and then had the audacity to laugh at his lover's protesting squawk. "Not that insignificant little semi I was sporting when I fell off the table, surely?"

The blond made a point of squinting into the tub, and the object of his scrutiny twitched in reply. "Ain't nothin' insignificant about that, Mister Reed," he drawled, bringing up a hand to feel the blush that heated the Englishman's cheek. "But yeah, I couldn't help hopin' you'd got as excited hearing me moan as I was listening to you, and when you said it wasn't always like that..."

"Never had been before, actually." Keeping his eyes above the waterline was getting harder - _pun most definitely intended_ , Malcolm added silently, deliciously aware of his cock's reaction to Trip's admiring gaze. "I was mortified! It never occurred to me for a moment..."

"That's so _you_ , Mal." The hand against his face shifted in a definite caress and Reed felt himself lean into it like a cat demanding to be stroked. "Thinking nobody's gonna notice you. I did, right from the start."

A screech echoed across the bay, subsiding into the grind of metal against rock. The soothing motion of water around the tub stopped. 

"It must cut out at a pre-set time." The god of armoury officers, Malcolm decided, had a paternal eye on one of his own in that instant, giving him precious moments to assimilate the enormity of what he had just heard. He cleared his throat, just resisting the urge to brush himself down as he stood and helpless against the hot flush that raced through him at Trip's appreciative wolf-whistle. "I - well, if you want to come back to my place... you're welcome."

He had never seen the outgoing engineer so bashful. "I'd like that," Tucker affirmed, waiting until Malcolm was out of the tub before making a move. "But if I stay tonight, I'm not givin' you up at the entryport, Malcolm Reed. I want what we could've had two years back, and then some. Maybe I'm leapin' in feet first here, but this isn't a shore leave deal for me."

Malcolm could feel his throat closing up as fast as the moisture sprang to burn his eyes. "The offer stands," he croaked, vaguely amused to find that gooseflesh could prickle in the unlikeliest places. Even his balls were tingling as a large, work-leathered hand wrapped around his.

Fireworks went off across the bay - in his imagination at least, and for the few moments it took for Trip to sweep him into his arms for another of those slow, time-stopping kisses he gave so well. By the time he was released Malcolm was tingling all over, his penis bobbing happily between their bare bellies. Trip palmed it playfully, his face lighting up at the younger man's groan. 

He matched it a moment later when Malcolm tugged his head down and showed off his own skills in the snogging department. They staggered into the woods still kissing, forgetful of the tree roots that crisscrossed their path right until the moment Reed's foot caught one.

His yelp reverberated around Tucker's mouth as his ankle gave way and the two men collapsed, the weight of his lover's body forcing all the air from Malcolm's lungs in a strangled squeak before they could roll, coating their nude lengths with dust. For an instant they stared at each other. Malcolm's lips twitched.

Twin gusts of laughter rolled out across the ocean. "It could only happen to us," the Englishman panted, flat on his back in the dirt as Trip clambered awkwardly to his feet. "We'll need a shower now."

"Ah'm willing to share," Tucker volunteered, his gaze riveted on the smaller man's undeflated erection. Reed waved a hand his way and he gave a heave, grunting theatrically before giving the sinewy body an enthusiastic (and pointless) dusting-down. "The Disaster Twins do fuckin' romance. Hoshi'd laugh herself sick."

"I suspect she would - once we'd picked her up from her swoon." He couldn't stop himself swaying against the warm strength that emanated from his new lover, nestling his dark head against that broad shoulder. "Anyone who howls at as many soppy films as she does has to be a hopeless bloody romantic, haven't they?"

"Hey! I cry at most of the same things, and that doesn't make me..."

The protest tailed off in the face of unrepentant British smugness. "I rest my case, m'lord," Malcolm drawled, softening the offence with a chaste peck. 

At least that was all he'd intended, he assured himself dazedly several minutes later when every bone in his body had been melted and every nerve ending set ablaze by the intensity of his lover's response. "How about that shower?" he breathed, uncomfortably aware of the dirt liquefying into mud beneath Trip's wandering hands. "And then..."

" _And then_ sounds good." The amused words rippled through his cheek as Tucker kissed his way along the prominent ridge of bone. Wrapping an arm around the bigger man's waist - the only way he could be sure of not floating away from sheer bliss, Malcolm thought whimsically - he let himself be led up the garden path to his villa, suddenly happy to allow the resort management that grandiose title for a seaside shed. 

_And then_ sounded bloody magnificent.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate? Coincidence? Or a meddling Vulcan? A belated nod to the line that triggered the whole fic, from 1.14 “Sleeping Dogs

"It was T'Pol, you know."

His new lover's voice seemed to Malcolm to be crossing a vast distance - low and still smoky from the effect of all the howling it had done in the last few hours. "What was?" he mouthed against the man's appetising neck, too sated to bother lifting his cotton-wool head.

The past hours had been - well, a revelation, he considered. From stroking the mud off each other under the shower's tepid stream to petting and kissing the water away, Trip had been gentleness incarnate, the most considerate partner of either sex he had ever known. The drift to bed, accompanied by more of those delicious, devouring kisses, was followed by a delirious blur from which, bright as shooting stars, a rare few moments stood out clearly in his mind.

Like the look on Trip's face, shadowed on one side, gilded by moonlight on the other, as he moved between his lover's parted thighs. "I want you, Malcolm."

Even in drowsy memory the words had the power to clench his tender balls. 

Or the first electrifying touch of a fingertip to his most sensitive spot; the ripping sensation of pleasure right up his spine that split the world momentarily in two. The satisfying awareness of being filled that flowed through his bowels once impaled on Trip's enormous cock. And the look of candid wonder that twisted the other man's beloved features as the pleasure crested and his orgasm broke over him. 

Even if he never enjoyed those delights again Malcolm knew he would savour the memories for the rest of his days. 

"What was T'Pol?" he repeated, shuffling enough to peek up at Trip's tranquil face. The covers around them shifted, cool against his sweaty back, and he was suddenly grateful for the man's adamant insistence on wrapping them up like two caterpillars sharing a chrysalis despite the humidity of the night. There was something to be said for _cosying up_ after lovemaking, and he would never dispute the point again.

As long, his wilfully pessimistic side cut in, as the lover in question was this one. 

"The friend who told me about this place, of course." He made it sound so obvious - as if the sudden announcement was the continuation of some earlier conversation, when Malcolm couldn't remember uttering a word beyond _Yes_ , _Trip_ and _Please_ since leaving the bathroom. "Said someone she trusted once told her it was the most relaxing place he'd ever been."

Time travel. He'd always wondered what it felt like.

Gut-wrenching, Malcolm concluded. If this was how Daniels felt every time, he'd recommend the meddling bloody nuisance stayed put in the 31st century. 

From the haven of Trip Tucker's arms in a Mexican love-nest he could feel himself being pulled back into Phlox's little blue box, two incredibly attractive women in their horribly practical undies leaving him erotically cold at his side. He could hear his own voice, pin-sharp, rebounding off Decon's walls, saying just those few long-forgotten words. "Someone she trusted, eh?"

"'s what she said." His tousled blond head on one side, Trip smiled lazily at his partner's pout. "Problem with that?"

"Not at all." That upturned mouth cried out to be kissed. "I simply didn't realise she had that much faith in my judgement."

"Do I wanna know how _that_ conversation happened?"

Slightly breathless, emerging between lips bruised by contact with his, that Southern drawl was even more attractive, Malcolm noticed idly, than usual. "Decon," he replied. 

It was Tucker's turn to look askance. "Remember pulling that battered Klingon ship out of a gas giant?" Reed continued. Trip's half-amused frown deepened into a full-blown grimace.

"Remember? Like I could forget!" he exclaimed, agitation having the agreeable side-effect of tightening his arms around Malcolm's body. "Heck, if I'd known the three of you had time to discuss favourite vacations down there, maybe I wouldn't have worried so much."

"Hardly." Being hugged breathless was an interesting experience but Malcolm's ribs were beginning to protest and, reluctantly, he levered himself up to stare contemplatively down on his adorable new man. "It was during Decon we - well, Hoshi and I, really, but T'Pol was there - were discussing relaxing places. I happened to mention a spa in Mexico. Never mentioned the name, mind. I've no idea how she got that."

"I don't care." Still, furrows were cutting Trip's smooth brow, pearly teeth nipping away at the full bottom lip, giving the lie to his words. "'cept I'm wondering.... she was in my head for over a year, right?"

"Apparently."

"And you were never out of my heart, yeah?"

"I wouldn't know about that." Damn his fair skin! Malcolm was convinced his explosive blush must be visible from Jupiter Station.

The blond arched his shoulders off his pillow to brush an innocent kiss across the Englishman's chin. "You do now. Sonofabitch! She knew that better than I did. Maybe that's why she had t' go chasin' off like her ass was on fire back home to get the bond broken, even if it meant diverting Enterprise."

"Even if you're right, she can't have actually thrown you into my path." The deeper meaning of that irate tumble of words was too overwhelming for instantaneous assimilation, which allowed Reed's rational mind to focus on the practical with unnerving clarity. "I didn't actually _name_ the place, and unless she trawled through fifteen years' reservations at every - oh!"

"You're awfully cute when inspiration hits, you know that?"

"Don't be daft."

"And I love watching you blush." Easing back down, Trip carried a protesting Malcolm with him, rolling until they lay nose-to-nose on the pillow, the very act of sharing breath sufficient to soothe the smaller man's outrage. "Whatcha thinkin'?"

"I told Hoshi I was coming here - the White Sands Spa Resort. In the breakfast queue. Anyone might've overheard."

"Including T'Pol if she was hidin' in her usual corner." His ex-lover and superior officer had set him up. Tucker knew it. 

And even on the night he'd wound up in her bed, he had never felt so much like kissing her. "Something good's come out of all that shit after all," he murmured.

Malcolm's exhale flowed over his lips. "Really?"

Oceans of hope - and, Trip realised with a pang, doubt - filled that little word. "Really," he affirmed, sealing the pledge with a tongue-tanglling smooch. "I'll never admit it to her, but maybe there's something to be said for Vulcan telepathy. She knew how I feel about you through the bond, and the logical thing for her to do was to gimme a little push in the right direction to figure it out for myself."

Sable lashes swept coyly over starlit eyes. "And what _do_ you feel about me?" Malcolm purred, confidence flowing at the languorous tempo of warm syrup off a spoon through his veins. Full lips trailed a path from his forehead to the tip of his straight nose before taking a dive right onto his waiting pout.

Others, he knew, might have hesitated. Put on the spot the same way, he would have waffled, prevaricated, dropped a dozen different hints. Perhaps, he thought, it was the very directness of the man that had held him in thrall for so long. 

"I love you, Malcolm Andrew Reed. And if you'll let me, I'm gonna spend the rest of our vacation - and after - showin' you just how much. What do you say?"

His personalised hull plating didn't so much depolarise as crumple under a frontal honesty attack, and every defensive system he possessed was knocked offline. "Yes," Malcolm breathed. "Yes, please. I..."

The words jammed in his tight throat, but of course Trip understood. He always did - always had, Malcolm realised dazedly as he was drawn in for a slow kiss that stopped the turn of the Earth. "I screwed up first time around, Malcolm," Tucker whispered, framing the Englishman's finely chiselled face between his palms. "This time's gonna be different, okay?"

"Considering the trouble T'Pol seems to have gone to on our account, it had better be. Did that sound smug?"

"I don't care." The bigger man shifted again, coming to rest on his back with his lover sprawled comfortably on top, rubbing up against him in all the right places. "You wanna cancel any plans you had for tomorrow?"

Silvery eyes gleamed as mischief tweaked Malcolm's tenderised lips. "I _was_ rather looking forward to my daily massage," he wheedled, serenely assured of the answer before Trip could open his mouth.

"I can do that."

"And you won't be offended if there are any unusual side-effects?"

"Oh, darlin'." Trip, he discovered, was experiencing one or two of his own with every move Malcolm made against him. "I'm countin' on them!"

He would not, the Englishman promised himself in the last moment of sanity that night, be disappointed.


End file.
